


Down The Rabbit Hole

by kathleensmiles



Category: Walking Dead
Genre: Alcohol, Child Abuse, Dark, Dixon Past, Drug Addiction, F/M, Original Character(s), Racist Language, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-08 16:37:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathleensmiles/pseuds/kathleensmiles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Merle was left for dead on a rooftop in the walker infested Atlanta, he eventually made his way to the governor's group in Woodbury.  However he couldn't of done it alone...<br/>This is the story of the woman he met along the way and how they helped and destroyed each other.<br/>Warning for gore/violence, sex, drug use and abuse. Merle/OFC with exploration of Merle's past issues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Creatures Lie Here

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a Merle/OFC but it's much darker that most Merle fics I've read and will be rated M pretty soon due to sex and excessive drug use and some abuse...For this chap however I'm only gonna warn for referances to drug use, swearing and violence/gore.  
> Also, the amazing MarionArnold is my beta, so if you havent read her fic Polar yet, go read it NOW. I'll wait.  
> I disclaim all that you recognize, enjoy!

Intro: Creatures Lie Here

How should I feel?  
Creatures lie here,  
Looking through the window.

Creatures Lie Here- T.I.

Merle drove the cube van slowly and steadily down the highway, trying to ignore the ghostly itch in his now non-existant right hand. It had been over a week since that 'Officer Friendly' bastard had chained him up like a rabid dog and left him for dead, but the ghost pains still came and went with a maddening irregularity.  
Worse yet his stump was red and discolored,occasionally leaking out pus, leading him to believe that it was infected. He was practiced in the art of self medication, but not when it came to infection.  
All his knowledge of pills focused on which ones would give him what type of high. He knew how Lyrica would make him feel like he was floating and make his perception all fuzzy and soft, like nothing could possibly harm him.  
He knew that Citalopram however would heighten everything, allowing him to notice the slightest movement or smallest threats that Lyrica would help him ignore, though it would all seem hilarious. He knew all about the overdose effects of most commonplace perscriptions, but he had no idea what to take to stop this infection, besides, his stash had been taken when those shits had moved camp.  
Even if could figure out what to do, he had no supplies to handle the problem with.  
He tried his best to ignore it, muttering to himself to stop being such a pussy while scanning the highway for a relatively safe place to stop for the night. Noticing a road sign proclaiming that the exit to Georgian Paradise Lodges was only a mile down the road, he smirked to himself. Lodges were generally pretty deep in the woods, away from people- and geeks by default.  
He could hole up in there for awhile, gather up some supplies and gas if he was lucky. These places always had some sort of first aid kit in them, so he may even be able to clear out the infection before it spread. He drove silently onwards, turning off the highway and onto a small dirt road. Parking by the main entrance, he moved carefully towards the lodges. There could be anything, or anyone, in there.

Glory Alegria Muentes stared at her husband, Mark, as he paced around the outside of their cabin. He was rambling pathetically, sounding both manic and hopeless. That in itself wouldn't concern her if it weren't for the fact that he was waving his pistol around as he spoke.

"There's no hope Gloria, no one's coming- didn't you tell me that?"

"Glory," she corrected him, sounding coolly disinterested,"and yeah, no one's coming. What's your point Mark?"

"That it's all over!" He yelled, waving his Glock in her face. "They won't stop coming Gloria-"

"Glory," she hissed, though he ignored her.

'"And they'll get us, and they'll tear us to pieces and, and I don't want that to happen to you, baby-"

"So a bullet to the brain? That's your great solution?" She growled.

"You don't have to do it by yourself," he babbled, a twisted mockery of what had once been a sweet smile on his face. "I can do it for you, then I'll do it myself, and we'll be free and everything will be fine."

She shot him a disgusted look. "So do I get a choice in this brilliant fucking plan of yours 'sweetie'?"

"We have to honey, otherwise-you- you're changing. The Gloria I knew was never like this. You're..Different now. I can't let it get any worse, don't you understand?"

"Glory," she hissed again, venom filling her voice. "And you're pathetic," she snapped, getting in his face. "You don't have the balls to just finish yourself off alone so you have to take me down with you! You won't be able to shoot yourself at all, you're too scared to shoot a fucking biter you're sure as hell gonna be too scared to kill yourself!"

Mark's jaw tightened and his eyes darkened.

"My Gloria wouldn't of said that," he whispered, completely still except for his eyes, which bore into her with hatred.

This was it.

"Bitch!" He shouted as he dove forward, clumsy and unbalanced. Glory dodged him easily, taking her machete from its place on her belt and driving it through his throat.

Blood bubbled from the wound, as well as his mouth and nose as he struggled to breathe, slowly drowning in the red liquid. His eyes searched frantically for some way to save himself and she spat on him.

"Coward," she snarled at him as he writhed in pain, picking up the pistol for herself when he finally died.

"Good riddance," she added, though now she was talking to a corpse.

Mark had been on a downward spiral for a long time now, but it would still take awhile to get used to having no one to talk too. Not that she and Mark had talked much recently, but she'd enjoyed having the option.  
She had changed yes, he'd been right about that. She wasn't the woman he'd married, she was stronger, colder. She'd adapted and people who didn't- like Mark- died. Survival of the fittest. Natural Selection, it was one the first principles she'd been taught in med school.  
A rustle from the bushes alerted her to someone else nearby, interrupting her train of thought. She quickly swiveled around, training the Glock on a tall, muscled man in his forties. Her eyes instinctively ran up and down his strong body, judging how much of a threat he might pose, when she noticed his right arm. It ended in a angry, discolored stub. He was missing his hand.

"Ain't no need to shoot me girly."


	2. Behind These Lines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chap I'm going to warn for drug use, violence/gore and some minor racism because it's Merle and he's a douche like that. I don't condone, but Merle unfortunately does and to a lesser extent so does Glory.  
> MarionArnold is still my fantastical beta, give her love and read Polar if you haven't already. Again, I'll wait.

Chapter 1: Behind These Lines

I'm gonna be released from behind these lines  
And I don't care whether I live or die.

Leave My Body- Florence And The Machine

"Ain't no need to shoot me girly," Merle repeated again insistently as the woman's gun stayed on him, studying her for any sign of reluctance or worse, resolve.

She was obviously a spic, he thought. It was easy to tell from the olive tones in her skin and the long, curly dark brown hair that hung down near her waist.  
He allowed himself to appreciate her rack through the thin tank she wore and the way her blue-jeans hugged her hips. Latinas always seemed to have fucking fantastic racks and asses. He guessed she was about 30-35, her eyes were almond shaped and as brown as her hair and she had very full lips.  
Taco-Bender or not, broad mighta been good lookin' before all this, he mused. Mighta considered hitting that. But if the scene he'd observed from the bushes was any sign this bitch wouldn't hesitate to kill him if she felt it was to her advantage. She didn't even know him and if that crazy asshole's final rant were any indication she'd been shacked up with that guy for awhile. Yet she hadn't even tried to talk the shithead down, just ran that machete through him like she was slicing up a pizza.

Glory didn't relax or lower her weapon. Studying him, she concluded that it hadn't been biters that had taken his hand off. The fever would be too intense for him to even move at this point, and the wound was too cleanly done and carefully cauterized for biters to be the cause. It didn't lessen her wariness towards him though. One handed or not, the man could pose a rather considerable threat, seeing that he was easily over twice her size.

"Why the fuck shouldn't I?" she asked flatly.

" 'Cause I ain't gonna hurt ya. I may do a lotta shit, but hittin' women ain't part of it, even if ya are a spic." The man drawled lazily in a thick Georgian twang.

Ah, she thought to herself drily, racism. Damn south never changed.

"You really ought to be more polite to a woman with a gun, 'spic' or not," she pointed out. "Now you've got about one, maybe two minutes until I blow your empty little head off if you don't give me a hell of a good reason not to."

He opened his mouth to plead his case, but she never heard it. Instead she heard a low, gurgling moan approach her from behind. What the hell?  
The biter dove for her back, knocking her front-ways down on the harsh gravel, which tore up her stomach through her tank top.  
She grabbed the thing by its arm before it could rip into her unprotected shoulders, flipping it over. Forcing it down, she pined it beneath her knees and found herself staring at an undead Mark.  
His growl was inhuman and strained to the point that it sounded like a vicious gargle. His eyes were a milky yellow and she could almost see through the stab wound in his throat to the earth beneath him. Muscle and flesh contorted horribly in the hole, forcing home how incredibly dead he should be. But he was moving, attacking for chrissakes. He hadn't been bitten, there hadn't been any biters near the place in over a week. Shock numbed her for a moment then, confusion and emotion distracting her.  
You had to bit to turn, but Mark turned anyways. The man she'd shared a home and bed with for eight years was trying to kill her. Again.  
The brief seconds of distraction were all it took for the much larger No-Longer-Mark to gain an advantage over her and pin her underneath him. The newly-dead were always so much stronger than the rest of the fuckers. Struggling to keep his hands and mouth from her throat, she tried to aim the now unsteady pistol inside his mouth. She couldn't hold him back much longer.  
Pulling the trigger, she swore as No-Longer-Mark's cheekbone was blown away, sending him flying off of her. Scooting backwards, she cursed again when Mark kept crawling towards her. The shot must have just missed the brain. No-Longer-Mark was foaming at the mouth as he dragged himself forwards with his arms, too stupid and excited with the prospect of a meal to get up and walk. Mark looked the closest he'd been to happy in months, she thought with a bitter chuckle.

Then the man grabbed Mark by the shirt collar, flipped him over and held him down beneath his steel toed boot. No-Longer-Mark tried stupidly and in vain to chew through the thick leather while what's-his-face grabbed a large rock in his hand and dropped it onto the now biter's face, crushing his skull.

"That good 'nuff of a reason fer ya?" He asked in a mixture of a growl and panting.

She didn't answer him, instead asking a question of her own. "Name?"

"Dixon. Merle Dixon."

"Well Merle, you've got a nasty as all hell infection there," she enunciated carefully, giving off an uncaring and calculated air. "You'll be no use to me dying, I'll treat you in the cabin."

Merle cocked a brow, doubtful. "Yer a doc?"

She nodded, "Medic for the USA Marines 4 years and pediatric specialist in infectious diseases for 3 years." Noticing the look of confusion on his face, she simplified. "I can fix you when I get an idea of what I'm dealing with."

He nodded, then glanced towards the finally dead Mark. "You gonna burn 'im?"

"Later, first things first..." She took off the simple gold wedding band from her finger quickly, tossing it unceremoniously on top of the body. "Consider this our divorce," she added in a flatly in a final goodbye to her dead- now ex- husband.

The cabin was sparse and undecorated, just about anything unnecessary to survival thrown away to conserve space. There was a twin bed in one corner, a couple of rifles leaning against the wall beside it, some drawers, a metal surgical table and a medicine cabinet against the kitchen wall. The cabin appeared to be pretty well stocked and Merle was almost impressed. Almost.

"Where the hell'd ya get all this crap?" He wondered aloud as she led him into the kitchen and opened up the medicine cabinet, sorting through a variety of pill bottles.

"Guns are from some dead marines and FEMA workers who were stationed down at Atlanta General Hospital, where I worked, and the medical supplies are from an abandoned medical trailer I ran across on the outskirts of the city. Dumbasses just left the stuff when they ran off."  
She grabbed his right arm firmly and moved it towards the surgical table, rolling her eyes when he flinched back.  
"I've gotta diagnose the infection smart ass, stub on the table or else."

He glared and grumbled a few curses but obliged, laying his arm out on the table and huffing impatiently while she prodded it. "So what's yer diagnosis Doc?"

She sighed,"Definitely a blood infection, probably got some bacteria in there too, be able to tell you some more specifics if I had a lab at my disposal. Whatever you got that hand of yours chopped off with, it must of been fucking filthy."

"Didn't have many options available t' me at the time..." He growled bitterly.

Glory raised a brow at the statement. So he'd cut it off himself and cauterized it afterwards too. Tough fucker. Stupid, maybe, but tough. That could be useful.

Pretending the information didn't intrigue her, she continued her examination. "I can give you some medication to get rid of some of the more major side effects and pains, but this infection is gonna get a hell of alot worse before it gets any better. Best I can do is give you some anti-virals and Lyrica and let it run it's course."

He glared at her, obviously unhappy with her suggestion of treatment. "Wha' the fuck kinda Doc are ya if ya can't fix it?"

"If I had a lab I could pinpoint the specific viruses and infection and have a more carefully catered treatment plan, but I don't have a lab and I have no idea what kinds of bacteria could be running through your system right now. A general plan is the best solution- the wrong drugs could kill you or aggravate the problem."

He mumbled something about women and their place but didn't argue. She was right and he knew it, though she didn't see him admitting it anytime soon.  
Merle's eyes widened as he noticed her loading up a syringe with some antibiotics. Merle was a snorter and a pill-popper, not a needle user.  
His Pa had been a needle user and ever since he was a kid the sight of a syringe made his guts churn. Back then it had meant that Pa would be all the more out of it and that he needed to find Daryl and get to the shed as quickly as humanly possible. Otherwise broken beer bottles and Pa's belt would all leave a mark on their backs. Pa had been dead for just over twenty years now, but the sight of a syringe never failed to make him feel ill.

Desperate to take his mind off of the needle that would soon be shoved into his arm before he vomited, he began talking.

"Wha' the fuck kind o' name's Glory anyways?"

She shrugged. "Nickname. Real name's Gloria, got called Glory while I was doing my service with the Marines in Iraq, me and Francis- another medic- got a couple of kids out of this car wreck once. They drove over an IED, parents died instantly and we all figured the kids were goners too, but we managed to keep them alive 'till they could be air lifted out. Got alot of attention for that so Francis got nicknamed Fame and I was Glory. You millitary?"

He nodded, careful not to look at the syringe. "Was fer a couple 'a years, got kicked out. Don't listen too well is all."

The needle pricked his forearm and he instinctively tried to pull back. She grabbed him by the wrist and slammed his arm back down against the table, eliciting a growled string of curses from him as she finished administering the antibiotics.

"There, all done," she stated calmly. "You'll get the pain meds in about a hour or so."

"Fuckin' bitch."

"Play nice or you're not getting any pain meds at all," she mumbled out of pure annoyance, going back into the medicine cabinet and pulling out a container of Benzadrine.

"Hell ya gettin' those out for?"

"For me," she replied coolly. "It'll keep me awake, don't take it personal but I don't trust you enough to go to sleep around."

He studied her with more than a mild interest as she took out two the little yellow capsules, cracked them open and dumped out the white powder within, using the blade of a pocket knife to form a perfect line. It was done with way too much precision and expertise for her to be a first time user.

"How long you been snortin' that stuff?" He asked bluntly.

"Don't see how it's your business, but about six months."

Six months, about the length of this...Well, whatever the hell it was when the dead rose and ate the living.

"Didn't wanna pass out 'round that husband 'a yers?"

She didn't answer at first, but a minute or so later she replied flatly,"I stopped trusting him awhile back," before snorting the line.

He eyed the pills hungrily, however Glory stated simply that no, he couldn't snort a line. Mixed with the meds he was now on, it would kill him, and if he was dumb enough to try and steal a pill she wouldn't waste her breath trying to revive him when he overdosed. They sat in silence until he was given his dosage of Lyrica, at which point she sent him to the bed.

"Tomorrow could very well be the shittiest day of your life," she stated simply.

Yeah, he thought to himself, he was getting that idea.


	3. End Of History

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chap is a tad different, since I'm opening with a flashback, just so ya know. That and the magical MarionArnold (my beta) took a vacay so yeah. Also I'm gonna warn for lotsa gore, swearing, Glory being slightly high and Merle being racist, but only once.   
> He was remarkably well behaved this chap *pats Merle on the back*  
> I'm so proud ^_^  
> Honestly there isn't much Merle this chap, but there will be a shit-ton of him in the next couple of chaps so fear not!  
> I just wanted to do some Character development with Glory.  
> Also I figured I'd give you all a quick lesson on the history of Glory's character.  
> She was originally going to be a minor OFC in a Daryl/OFC fanfic I'm gonna work on eventually. She was going to be a member of Woodbury, have a bit of a history with Merle, have a one-night-stand with Daryl and die.  
> I have a sketch of her in my book from early last year and everything, but her history with Merle was so damn interesting and she was such a dark character that I had to do this and she went from cool background character to having her own story! Yay Glory!  
> Anyways, as you know by now I don't own the Walking Dead. I own only Glory, since she was birthed from my imagination.  
> If ya recognize it, I disclaim it. Enjoy and be sure to review!

Chapter 2: End Of History

Speaking of things we shouldn't read.  
Looks like the end of history, as we know it.  
It's just the end of the world!

Nine In The Afternoon- Panic! At The Disco

Gloria Muentes was working the graveyard shift in the Children's Infectious Diseases unit at Atlanta General Hospital.  
It was 2:37 in the morning on a Tuesday, herself and her co-worker Emily were decked out in hazmat suits, looking at a quarantine room full of sick children through the heavy glass. Usually she'd be getting overtime for this, but not tonight. America was in a state of emergency, the new disease that had only been a rumor merely three weeks ago had spread like wildfire across the country, unstoppable. First an epidemic was publicly declared, only to raised the very next day to plague.  
"A plague of biblical proportions," A terrified young news woman had declared on channel six, live from an overrun Las Vegas on Sunday.  
Then Gloria, her husband and over half of what remained of America watched in horror as the news woman and her camera man were chased through the streets and ripped to shreds on live TV by a hoard of monsters.  
Gloria had cried when the woman began sobbing and begging Jesus to save her, because the woman knew that she'd sinned and she repented, she was sorry for everything. The camera man had never talked, just hit the creatures with the camera and occasionally asked the woman to run faster, but he'd screamed for over 10 minutes at the end. Gloria had never been so scared in her life, even in Iraq.  
Now she was in the hospital, looking after the kids who'd been infected.  
With Emilys help she applied antibiotics to the bites and scratches, then at the insistence of the marines stationed to defend the hospital, restrained the children to the beds before rolling them into quarantine.  
A little boy who said his name was Jamie kept on asking why his daddy had gotten so angry with him and why mommy ate the cat.  
She almost started crying again, but instead she put on a cheery face for the kids. They were hurting enough already. Jamie was missing half of his hand.  
After attending to the last child, a tiny four year old girl, she removed the the head piece of her suit, feeling as though she'd just aged a hundred years.

"Jesus," Emily sighed. "to think there's a disease that drives you nuts enough to try and eat your own kid..Makes me sick to think about it."

"Yeah," Gloria agreed glumly.

"If I ever tried to take a bite outta Greg I'd just want them to shoot me."

"You drop him off at the refugee center earlier?"

"Yeah," Emily mumbled,"doesn't stop me from worrying though. I mean, I know he's safe there but the dead are walking around like wannabe Hannibal Lectors and I can't help but feel panicky."

"He's your baby, you have every right to worry."

"Mark at the refugee center?"

"No, crazy man's refusing to go until I get out of here, I told him he's being paranoid but he wouldn't hear it. Won't go until I can come with him."

Emily grinned,"You've got yourself one of the good ones."

"I know," she said softly, smiling.

A harsh groaning from the quarantine room made them look up. A 14 year old girl was moaning and growling viciously, clawing and struggling against her restraints. Her skin had paled and grayed to a corpse like color and her eyes had turned into a waxy pink-grey. Spittle flew from her mouth as she snarled and hissed, trying to throw herself towards them through the observation window. A few of the other children began to cry, though most were too exhausted from the fever. After trying briefly to reach these children but finding them not to her liking, she resumed struggling against the restraints in a an attempt to attack.

"Oh my god," Emily gasped, eyes wide from the terrifying display.

"We should do something," Gloria whispered,"she's scaring the other kids."

"What can we do? What the hell is the protocol for this?"

They both jumped as the sound of gunfire echoed from the hallway.

"What the hell was that?" Gloria asked, panic creeping into her voice.

There shouldn't of been any gunfire, not here. Atlanta was safe, all the southern states had been told to come here for protection.  
The infected were safely secured, restrained in the many hospital quarantine blocks. It was safe here. They promised. Gunfire sounded again, louder this time. Closer than before, it rang through the room from just a little ways outside the door. She was shaking now. Something had gone very, very, wrong.

Emilys cell phone came to life then, playing a brief 'Thriller' ringtone before she picked it up, her voice cracking. "Hello? Who's this?"

Gloria could make out most of the conversation on the other end.

"This is Sergent Grenwood of The United States-"

"What happened?" Emily asked frantically.

"Everything is under control, we need you and your colleague to exit into the hall-"

"Into the hallway? Are you insane? There are sick kids in here and we just heard gunfire out there! Why the hell was there gunfire?"

"It's none of your concern," Sergent Grenwood replied tonelessly.

"None of our concern? You have got to be fucking kidding me! We aren't going anywhere until we know what the fuck is out and what you're going to do for these kids," she snarled.

"Ma'm-"

"Don't Ma'm me shithead, I want to talk to Fleming," she insisted, naming a friend of theirs who worked on this floor. "I want some goddamn answers!"

"Fleming is unavailable at the moment."

Emily was pacing now, almost hyperventilating. Fleming was always available. "Then I want to talk another member of hospital staff."

"Hospital Staff is unavailable at the moment."

Gloria paled and Emily let out a choked sob.

"What happened to them?" she demanded.

"That is none of your concern, now you and your colleague will come into the hallway or we will be forced to break down the door."

"Fuck you," Emily hissed, snapping the phone shut and grabbing an operating table. "Help me block this door, they can't get in here. That man he...Did something to everyone."

"He killed them, the gunfire, the Marines must be killing..." Gloria trailed off, almost not believing it.

"Help me barricade the door," Emily insisted, snapping her out of her shock.

Gloria grabbed the table, flipping it on it's side and wedging it against the door, forcing it firmly closed. They jumped as they heard the sound of people throwing themselves at the door and hoped it would hold. Glancing back at the quarantine cell, Gloria nearly screamed.  
All but Jamie and another little boy had turned and they where tearing and biting at the restraints in a frenzy. The fourteen year old had broken her restraints and was pressed up against the glass, ramming into it over and over, her rythm beginning to match that of the Marines. Her eyes were wild, starving and inhuman.  
Somehow her skin had become even more corpse-like than before, and blood leaked slowly from her finger tips as she scratched furiously at the barrier dividing her from her meal, ripping away fingernails and skin in the process. One of her pinky fingers jutted far out to right, broken from her efforts.  
The no-longer-a-girl growled and screeched, the bite marks on her arms a deeper, more disturbing red than before. There was a single crack in the window.  
They couldn't stay here. Eventually the others would break their restraints. A couple more already had. Soon they'd all be beating on that glass and eventually it would break. The door couldn't hold forever either. They needed to leave, immediately.

"We need to go," Gloria hissed. "Somebody's going to break through eventually and we can't afford to wait around."

"But those little boys," Emily snapped back, panicked and conflicted.

Gloria sighed. She wanted to save them, to somehow make this all go away. But those little boys were bitten, passed out and restrained in an quarantine room full of monsters. The sound of restraints snapping and more of them slamming against the window made the decision for her.

"We can't help them anymore Emily, they're bit."

Emily shook her head fervently and growled. "No."

Before Gloria could even process what was happening Emily smashed the nearby 'In Case Of Emergency' container open, pulling out one of the two axes for herself. Armed, she opened the quarantine door, ignoring Glorias protests.  
A ten year old little girl creature reached Emily first, reaching out her one arm hungrily, only to be dispatched by a quick blow to the head.  
Two more no-longer-children were eliminated by means of a swing of Emily's axe and she reached Jamie quickly, telling him softly that it would be alright, she was getting him out of here. I he was going to be just fine. Placing a hand on the edge of the bed to work at his restraints, she gasped when his eyes suddenly opened, a milky yellow hue to them. Then all she could do was scream as no-longer-Jamie ripped muscle and flesh from her arm.  
A teenage boy latched onto her from behind then, teeth tearing through her throat and vocal chords, turning her shrieking into a sputtering choking noise as blood shot out from her neck. She dropped her axe when another little girl dug into her leg, falling when an eight year old tore hunk after hunk of flesh from her back and twitched and spasmed as the fourteen year old and a few others joined in.

Gloria could only cry silently as Emily was eaten by the children she'd spent her whole life helping.

Glory left the cabin as soon as Merle fell asleep, newly energized and recharged by the Benzadrine racing through her system. The world around her was heightened, the contrasts between everything intensified as she began to deal with Mark's body. The cleaning fluid she drizzled over him -so as not to waste any of her precious gasoline- looked gloriously bright, almost sparkling in the starlight. It made the whole ordeal seem nicer somehow, though a small part of her knew it was just one of the drugs many side effects. The match looked like it was floating down in slow motion when she lit it and tossed it onto the corpse. There was a barely audible woosh and then he was engulfed in a beautiful display of flames. She smiled as the heat seared her skin slightly, warming her bones.

"I hate you," she told the inflamed figure matter-of-factly. "You're a coward and I fucking hate you."

Mark didn't reply, just burned slowly, flesh melting and mixing with what was left of his clothes. Soon there would be nothing left, just a small pile of ash, maybe a bit of charred bone. Nothing to show that it was Mark who had burnt to bits here. It was better that way, helped her not to dwell on it.  
Sighing, she began to walk the perimeter, making her bi-hourly patrol for biters.  
The area around her cabin and the main lodge seemed clear, other than a box van parked by the gate. She could only assume it was Merle's chosen method of travel. Walking at a brisk pace, she began to circle back to check the cabins further off, by the woods, where she'd parked her SUV.  
The sound of Merle screaming out broke the nights silence. He must of woken up.

Merle's right hand was on fire. He had no idea where he was or what was happening, but he knew that his right hand was on fire. He could feel the flesh melting off of it, feel the flames eating away at his skin and lapping their way up his arm.  
Staring at the place where the pain felt strongest, he realized in horror that not only could he not see any flames, he couldn't see his fucking hand.  
Why the hell couldn't he see his hand? It didn't make sense, he knew his hand was there, burning. It had to be, he could feel it for chrissakes!  
His mind struggled to reason it. His mind could be playing tricks, pain does that, hell when he'd cauterized that fucking stump he could of sworn he was back in the Marines-  
The stump, right, he thought foggily, forcing himself to focus beyond the horrible pain. He'd cut his hand off, it was gone, had been for over a week. The pain increased, as if his hand had been impaled on a spike. This didn't make sense, his hand was gone but he could feel the spike as it tore through its flesh, muscle and bone. He could feel every sensation as the fire ate away at him, but there was no smell of smoke and burnt flesh.  
For fucks sake there was no hand to melt and impale!  
So why did he feel it?  
He was vaguely aware of a door slamming, then the spic woman, Glory, was shouting over him.

"Merle! You need to stop your fucking screaming, do you want every biter in Atlanta up here for chrissakes?!"

He hadn't even realized he was screaming, but he noticed it now, sensing the rawness of his throat and the expletives flying from his tongue.

"Merle I swear to fuck if you do not stop that noise I will personally drive you to Atlanta, tie you up and feed you to the biters myself!"

That stopped him, he remembered being there, trapped, while they advanced. Remembered the hunger in their inhuman gaze and the sound of their snarls. That would never happen again. He wouldn't let it.

"Good," Glory mumbled under her breath. "You're probably just getting some ghost pains, my treating the stump yesterday probably intensified them. Your body still isn't used to not having a hand, so it's reacting badly."

She went to the medicine cabinet quickly, filling a syringe. Merle swore as she forced it into the stump, but the pain was replaced with a calming, floating sensation only Morphine could bring.

"Better?" She asked and he nodded, relaxed. "Good," she grumbled, walking away as his eyes grew heavy and he faded back into sleep.

Glory walked away as Merle fell back asleep, worried to a point of near panic. His screams had been so fucking loud, she could of sworn every biter in Georgia would hear them. The noise must have echoed on for miles, not that she could blame him. From what she'd learned of ghost pains like this in Iraq, they were excruciating. Nonetheless, his pain could've of just brought down a shit ton of biters. She had to check the back perimeter and deal with any that had wandered too close. She walked only a few steps behind the cabin when she saw it. A hoard.  
Far over fifty biters were trickling forwards from the woods at the back of the property, stumbling forward in search of the source of the noise that no doubt brought them this way and their next meal. There were so many of them, too many to fight even if she had a small army at her disposal.  
The lodge was lost.


	4. Oblivion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, even my beta called this chap "intense", which it definitely is. Lots of upsetting Merle stuff, just so ya'll know. Anyways...I really wanted to get into Merle's head and past this chap.  
> I'm going to play around with some hallucinations brought on by the Morphine, but please know that I am not a nurse or doctor.  
> If I get something wrong, I apologize and hope you'll forgive me.  
> As usual, MarionArnold is the awesome beta and if you recognize it I disclaim it.  
> I'm warning for swearing, gore, violence, racism, homophobia, Merle being high, child abuse, allusions to domestic abuse, assault and allusions to sexual abuse. I do not condone anything!  
> Enjoy and please review!

Chapter 3: Oblivion

A one-track mind, you can't be saved.  
Oblivion, is all you crave.  
Addicted To Love- Florence And The Machine

Merle was at his Pa's shack. He was about 16 and reluctantly returning to the piss hole after another stint at juvie. All day he'd been dreading this and he'd gone to spend time with that annoying Denise broad just to put it off. It hadn't been so bad, he and Denise never talked much anyways and just about all their time together was spent on a mattress. Woman had a good twenty years on him- but damn it all to hell she still had great tits.  
He approached the small, lopsided structure slowly, as if his feet were weighed down with iron. The sounds of the Old Man and a couple of his buddies shooting up and getting their booze on greeted him from outside and he opened the door timidly, hoping not to attract their attention.  
Pa was bad enough as it was, throw in a few syringes and some of his buddies and Merle could spend the next few hours wishing he was dead.  
The was a grunt and a soft whimper as the door hit someone who laid in the entryway, blocking the door.  
Merle paled. Oh no, not Daryl, please don't let those sumbitches get to Daryl, he begged whatever God might be listening.  
Careful not to step on the figure, he slipped into the house.

As usual, his prayers had been ignored.

He crouched down to his baby brother's level, wiping sweat from the boys brow while he tried to soothe him.  
Daryl was curled up in a little ball, scraped knees held tightly against his chest in the fetal position while he laid on the floor in a pool of piss and vomit.  
One of his eyes was swollen shut, his wrist twisted far too much to the right and the new cuts and burns along his bare chest and arms were crimson and irritated, crusted with filth.  
He was in only his boxers, shaking weakly but uncontrollably and Merle wondered how long he'd been left there like that, wondered what other kind of wounds had been inflicted, what wounds he couldn't see.  
Ma had once laid down in her own blood for a little over two days, though Daryl wouldn't remember that, he'd been so small at the time. Still was, really.  
Hatred for his shit poor excuse for a father surged through him then, hatred for the bastards perverted, sadistic little buddies. This was going to end. Tonight.  
But first, he had to take care of his Baby Bro.

Wiping the unshed tears from his little brothers eyes, he whispered to him.  
"Hey...'S al'ight. Merle's gon' make it alright, but first lets get ya cleaned up. Think ya can stand Lil' Bro?"

Trying to move himself into an upright position and failing, Daryl shook his head feebly.

Merle gave him a light pat on the shoulder and nearly ran into the living room to take the Old Man down then and there when Daryl flinched in pain.  
"Tha's al'ight lil' bro, I can handle ya," he mumbled, carefully scooping the boy up in his arms and carrying him down towards the house's disgusting little bathroom to get cleaned up.

Filling the sink and then starting to fill the tub, Merle set Daryl down on the edge of the sink and began to disinfect the cuts on his face, cleaning them as gently as possible. Daryl whimpered when the peroxide hit the cuts and Merle comforted him, telling him that it was okay, Big Bro was back now and he wasn't gonna stand for this shit.

"Wha' happened this time anyways?" Merle asked softly, saving his rage for the jack asses in the living room.

Daryl shrugged shakily, the seven-year-olds eyes wide and frightened, voice strained and scratchy from thirst.  
"He's shootin' up again, only this time he brought more folks than usually and I wanted to go hide in the shed like ya said I should when he's shootin' up but I couldn't 'cause there was too many of 'em t' sneak past. I tried t' do like ya said, real'y I did."

"I believe ya." Merle assured him, stopping the tap on the tub and setting him inside it. "How long ya figure ya been out there?"

"I dunno, couple a days prob'ly. I been real hungry and th'ursty for awhile now."

That was how the Dixon boys measured the passing of time, by growling stomachs and nights spent starving.

"Pa's friends hurt ya?"

"Well, yeah," Daryl replied, a little puzzled by the question.

"I don't mean the usual kind 'a hurt," Merle explained slowly, searching his little brothers eyes for a sign of understanding or recognition.

The child just looked confused. "Hell 're ya talkin' 'bout?"

Merle nearly breathed a sigh of relief. There was no way Daryl could have been hurt like that and not know what he was talking about.

Once it happened...You just knew.

"Nuthin' jus' checkin'. Now Big Bro's gon' go take care 'a this shit, ya alright here?"

"Yeah...Merle?"

"Wha' Baby Bro?"

Daryl replied so quietly, so timidly that Merle had to strain to hear him. "Ya really gon' get 'im away from us?"

"I'm gonna try lil' man. Now don't worry 'bout it, after this I'll get ya a sandwich."

The boy nodded excitedly and licked his lips as if Merle had just promised a pile of the worlds finest chocolates.  
Giving him one last smile, Merle went down the hall to deal with their father.  
The Old Man was sprawled out on the couch, tourniquet still wrapped around his arm while he and a few of his drinking buddies gazed lazily at the ceiling.  
He recognized a couple of them, and nearly turned tail like a little pussy when he saw Mikey sitting on the far end of the couch, but forced himself to man the hell up and deal with it. If he played his cards right, that shit wouldn't lay a finger on him ever again and Daryl would be safe.  
He had to make sure that Mikey creep never even looked at his brother sideways, that their so-called "father" never left another bruise on either of them.

"Be a man Merle", he whispered to himself, moving to stand in front of the Old Man and his buddies.

They didn't even look up, to damn out of it to notice him until Merle sent a fierce right hook into Pa's jaw.  
The old bastard tumbled backwards with the force of the punch, before craning his neck to get at good look at Merle, spitting out a single, rotten and bloodied tooth. Pa friends looked vaguely amused, like this was a pathetic little display all for their entertainment. Smack and a show. Mikey leered, chuckling.

His Pa turned to him, snarling, breath thick with the smell of Camel's Cigarettes, cheap whiskey and halitosis. "Well, looky here boys. Bitch came back."

Merle fumed while the jack ass's friends snickered and punched Pa again, harder, grabbing him by his greasy hair and slamming his smug face into the floorboards.  
"Shut the hell up! Jus' shut up! Ain't nobodies bitch, ya hear me?," he shouted at the bastard, who was still grinning like a smug little shit while blood ran from his now broken nose. As if he'd won.

Mikey was actually laughing now, the expression on his face saying that this little stand was pitiful, because he owned Merle, had him firmly under his filthy grasp and always would.

Merle hated that look.

He slammed Pa's face into the floor again, growling. "We're leavin', ya hear? I'm takin' Daryl an' we're outta this shit hole fer good an' you sumbitches 're gonna stay the fuck away from us. Ya ain't never goin' near Daryl again, ya hear me?"  
The Old Man chuckled and Merle slammed his face back into the floorboards in frustration. "Ya fuckin' listenin' t' me!?"

"Ya ain't never gon' leave Merle," Pa sneered.

"Fuck you, we're goin'."

"Ya fuckin' dumbass, ya ain't never goin' anywheres," he laughed mirthlessly, like it was obvious and Merle was just an incredibly simple minded idiot.  
"Yer stuck Merle, this all ya got, all yer ever gonna be, all yer ever gonna have. This is it fer you."

"Shut the fuck up, ya dunno wha' yer talkin' about."

"Ya know well as I do shithead. Wha' the hell 're ya gonna do? How ya gonna feed yerselves? Who the fucks gonna hire yer useless scum ass?"

"Dunno, don't care," Merle snapped. "Sure as hell can't do any worse."

"Ya can't do no better either, think ya got it in ya t' raise that pussy brother a' yers? Yer in juvie more th'an not fer chrissakes. Talk a big ass game but where the hell 're ya half the time if yer so damn concerned 'bout him?"

"I said shut up!" He shouted, shaking the Old Man and throwing him against the back wall.

They were still chuckling, laughing at him. It was driving Merle insane. He just wanted them to stop, to take this shit seriously. He just wanted to go.  
He wanted out of that middle of nowheres town, out of the fucking crumbling shack at the end of that awful fucking dirt road.  
He just wanted to take Daryl and be gone, it didn't matter where. He just wanted out of the shitty life his genes and the fates had condemned them to.

Mikey stepped forward a little bit and Merle instinctively flinched back from him, feeling like a disgusting little bitch for doing it. For cringing at the sight of his narrow gaze, dirty wife beater and tabacco stained leer- he should be stronger than this for chrissakes. But all he could think about was the pain and the dirt and how damp Mikey's Colt 45 scented breath had felt on the back of his neck, about how fucking filthy he was. How he was a dirty, weak, repulsive little faggot.

Mikey smiled in a not at all pleasant manner, his malicious grin revealing blackened molars.  
"Aw, c'mon Merle, ya can't take the lil' guy away now. I was just gettin' t' know 'im."

For the first time in his life, Merle literally saw red and before he knew it he was diving at Mikey, hands wrapping around his throat.  
Pa and the other assholes were on him like flies on a carcass, dragging him back while he yelled and tried to break free so he could kill the bastard.

"Don't ya fuckin' talk 'bout Daryl that way, ya pervert fuck! Don't ya fuckin' dare!"

They were hitting him now and Merle stood his ground best he could, taking punch after punch. If there was one thing juvie had taught him- and there were a few- it was how to handle his shit in a fight. But at the end of the day, they out numbered him. They had the broken bottles and he had only his fists.  
It was a doomed battle and they soon had him beaten and bloodied on the floor, panting while Mikey held him down with a work-boot in the center of his back.  
Pa went to get another bottle of whiskey and take another hit, no longer entertained by the situation.  
Mikey grinned down at his captive and Merle wished he was dead, wished they'd gone too far and beaten him to death. It wasn't the first time he wished for death and lord knew it wouldn't be the last. He wasn't suicidal, didn't want to leave Daryl if he could avoid it, but when Mikey was there all that was forgotten and he wished he was six feet deep in the ground.  
His Pa frightened him, hurt him and made him ill.  
Mikey terrified him to his core, pratically destroyed him, and made a little bile come up his throat every time he heard his name.

Smiling sadistically, Mikey sniggered at him. "Don't worry there darlin', ya ain't gettin' replaced. Kid's a little scrawny for my tastes, I like my bitches sturdy."

Merle struggled as he was pulled onto his feet, forced into a chokehold and dragged outside. He tried and failed to surpress a whimper, praying to a God that had never answered him.  
Please, please, please don't let this happen for fuck's sakes ya gotta stop shittin' on me sometime, please no-

"We're gonna be takin' a trip t' the shed, spend a lil' quality time together. Don't that sound nice?" Mikey taunted, dragging Merle's broken body towards the closet sized structure.

Merle paled. This couldn't happen in the shed, he was supposed to be safe in the shed. No one could find them there. He and Daryl would tell silly made up stories to each other and huddle against each other in the night for warmth while they waited for the relative calm of morning.  
He'd promised Daryl that they'd be safe there. He'd been safe there.  
He was thrown inside, the damp darkness of the shed consuming every trace of light and him with it while Mikey slammed the door shut behind them.

Merle went up to the room he and Daryl shared an hour or so later with a noticeable limp, bleeding and sandwichless. Daryl didn't say anything, ask when they were leaving, what had happened or what they'd eat tonight. Just walked over to Merle's twin bed from his tiny cot and crawled in, burrowing his small form into his big brothers rib cage, staying there all night.

The next time the Old Man started shooting up Merle told his little brother that they were going to hide in the woods out back.

Daryl had looked at him with his head cocked sideways, like a confused puppy. "But I thought we was s'pose t' hide in the shed?"

Merle just told him that the shed wasn't safe anymore and to drop the fucking subject.

In his Morphine riddled mind, Merle was still there, with Daryl in that fucking shack at the end of that fucking dirt road that he never left, not until the world ended. Physically, he was passed out inside the cabin, sprawled out on the bed and occasionally flinching in response to something in the memories/dreams. Tossing and turning aside, he was still, the world around him silenced by the world in his head.

Glory ran back into the cabin a few minutes after seeing the herd, in a rush to collect as much supplies as possible before waking Merle and making her get away. She'd need him if she was going to survive this. Or, more specifically, she'd need his van. Getting out alive on foot was not an option.  
Grabbing a canvas bag, she quickly collected all the medication from the medicine cabinet, making sure that there were plenty of painkillers for Merle and Benzadrine for her.  
Adding a few cans of chili, she got herself a rifle and set about to trying to wake up the unconcious redneck, poking him in the back with the butt of the gun.

"Merle," she snapped, "get your white trash ass up- we've got a problem!"

He didn't respond and she cursed under her breath. If she didn't find a way to wake him up within the next couple of seconds, she would have to leave him here and take her chances on foot. The idea of leaving Merle to die didn't sit right with her, but if she was being honest she'd have to admit that the idea of trying to avoid the biters without a vehicle bothered her more. She was a survivalist now, through and through.  
She didn't kill her husband just to be torn to shreds later on in the night, so, desperate to wake the hillbilly up, she punched him square in the jaw.

"Wha' the fuck?" He spluttered groggily as he woke up, fighting the Morphine in an attempt to process what had just happened. "Fuckin' spic bitch!"

"Sorry, but I had to wake you," Glory explained cooly. "We've got biters."

Merle struggled to understand at first. Glory looked strange in his eyes, every color heightened or saturated and ever so slightly blurred. Reminding himself that it was the Morphines fault, he snapped out of it best he could.

"How many of 'em?"

"Too many to count," she answered, offering him a rifle. "Think you can shoot?"

He scoffed. " 'Course I can woman, I'm a Dixon fer chrissakes."

Not looking convinced but accepting the answer, she gave him the gun. "You have the keys to that van of yours?"

"In my pocket sugar," he drawled, tongue feeling heavy.

She nodded, ignoring the 'Sugar' bit. "Then let's do this," she growled, opening the cabin door.

There were geeks everywhere, that much Merle could process.  
He was overwhelmed by the sheer numbers those undead fuckers had in their favor.  
They were spread out all over the place, rotting and hungry hands clawing at them from every turn while they ran.  
There were far too many to bother shooting and Merle resorted to a hit-and-run strategy, bashing any walker's skull that came to close with the butt of the weapon. Everything still looked strange, more ethereal somehow. Like he'd stumbled onto some sort of dreamscape or taken some powerful shrooms.  
A walker stumbled in front of him, intestines hanging from the torn gut and as he was staring it down, waiting for the perfect moment to strike, it changed.  
Suddenly it was no longer a walker he was facing off against, but Harris Grange, a boy he'd beaten the crap out of when he was thirteen.  
Harris had made what could be taken as an incredibly brave or an incredibly stupid choice in their tiny southern town- he'd announced that he was gay.  
And from that moment Merle had hated him with a boiling passion.  
He'd beaten on some of the 'different' kids before, Addame, the spic or Callum and Ty, the nigger brothers, but not out of any hatred really.  
It was simply something to do, something they'd gotten themselves into he figured, by being the different ones in a Georgian town.  
But he truly hated Harris.  
He'd been young, but he knew what gay meant, that the boy was a faggot. It disgusted him, how anyone could possibly enjoy having that happen to them.  
So he gave the kid hell, picked on him, beat him around a bit. Until that simply hadn't been enough and he was caught with the pansy's face under his boot after beating the kid within an inch of his life. He'd meant to kill him. Afterwards he was sent off to juvie.  
Merle didn't regret it to this day.  
So the moment he got over the initial shock of the transformation, he cracked the boys skull open, confusion filling him when Harris fell to ground as a geek.

Forcing himself back to reality, he kept running, noticing Glory take out a couple of walkers ahead of him with her machete.  
Then one of the walkers that was falling down dead was Daryl, when the boy had been 10 or so, begging Merle not to take the little white pills anymore.  
Crying and saying that there was something wrong with Merle ever since he'd started snorting them.  
Merle had argued, because he knew that everything was better since he'd began using.  
Everything felt beautifully numb and all he had to do was lay back and forget.  
It was perfect and Daryl was ruining it with his crying and sniveling, so he'd given his little brother a few solid right hooks.  
He told him to man the hell up because Dixons didn't cry and left Daryl to bleed on the decaying hardwood floor while he got another hit.

Then the dead walker was just that once again.  
A figure loomed closer, approaching out of the corner of his eye. He turned, head still whirring, prepared to face whatever threat was coming his way.  
And Mikey's face was leering back at him, eyes sunken back into his skull, teeth stained with a bile inducing mixture of tabacco and blood.  
Merle was frozen, completely immobile while Mikey charged towards him.  
Suddenly he was no longer a capable man of 46 but a seven year old boy who didn't know what was happening, only that it hurt worse than any of Pa's punches. All he could think about was the pain and how he couldn't run because Mikey would catch him, he always did, and then he'd make it hurt so much more.  
Mikey nearly had him now, the sadistic, sneering hunger in his dead eyes bright in the starlight.  
But Merle still couldn't bring himself to move and he knew he was going to die, because he'd been weak for all those years. Because he still was.

Then Mikey sunk to the ground with a machete in his head, and suddenly Glory was there, snarling at him while she retrieved the weapon and shoved him forward.  
"What the fuck redneck!? Let's go!"

Something inside of Merle burst and he ran fast as he could towards the van that was finally within his sight, single-mindedly focused on getting the hell away.  
He didn't let himself look back, afraid that he'd see Mikey stumbling after them, because he just couldn't imagine that evil fuck as being dead.  
It seemed too good to be true. Good shit didn't really happen to Dixons.  
Diving into to drivers seat, Glory jumped in beside him and he drove away, tires squeeling and Glory shouting while they left the overrun lodge.


	5. Embrace The Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chap is mostly Merle oriented again, I just wanted to explore the psychological scars having to cut and cauterize your own hand might leave :)  
> And of course the how past issues might aggravate the problem...  
> I'm warning for language, minor racism/sexism/homophobia, allusions to drug use, allusions to alcohol, allusions to abuse/sexual abuse, and violence/gore.  
> No condoning from me.  
> MarionArnold is still the wonderful beta, and I still disclaim all that you recognize. Enjoy and please review!

Chapter 4: Embrace The Darkness

I tried my best to embrace the darkness in which I swim.  
Keep Your Head Up- Ben Howard

Merle's thoughts were haunted while he drove along the desolate highway and it was Daryl who was haunting them. He didn't know where his Baby Bro was.  
He had no idea if his brother was alive, dead or some horrible mix of the two like the rest of the geeks. He hadn't even really bothered looking for him.  
For fuck's sakes, he'd been more concerned about the location of his stash than the location of his own flesh and blood, his kin!

"You'll always take care o' him, won't ya Merle?" His Ma's low drawl, husky from years of chain smoking, echoed in his mind.

Ma hadn't been a perfect person, she was shit at school stuff, dropped out when she got pregnant with him at 15, drank like a person dying of thirst and smoked countless packs of Virginia Slims daily, but she was a pretty damn near perfect mother.  
Not that he had anyone to compare her to.  
She'd taught him to always hold his head high, keep standing straight no matter how banged up he was or what people were saying about them.  
The woman had a sense of class and pride ingrained into her bones, though lord only knew where she'd picked it up in their shit hole town.  
Every day without fail she curled her hair, ironed their clothes and carefully painted on a generous layer of red lipstick.

"No matter wha' they say 'bout us Merle, we gotta carry ourselves with pride. 'Cause we know we're stronger than 'em, so fuck 'em. We gotta show 'em that we don't care wha' they talk 'bout."

Pride was nothing to her however compared to the stock she put in loyalty to your kin. It was why she'd stayed with the Old Man, through all the blood and broken bones. At the end of the day, asshole or not, he was the father of her children and she would honor that.  
And honor it she did, right up until the day she died, burnt to nothing but a pile of dust, along with her red lipstick and those goddamn fucking Virginia Slims.

"You'll always take care o' him, won't ya Merle?"

He hadn't taken care of him. He'd fucking left him for dead.

He'd failed his Lil' Bro.

Part of him wanted to blame the drugs, blame the multicolored pills and white powders. That was bullshit and he knew it.  
He'd been a fuck up as a brother before that; the drugs just aggravated the problem, the Old Man had been right.  
Talked a big game but he was never actually there.  
Even when he wasn't in juvie or the state pen, he always had someplace else to be.  
Had to go take a tour of the bars, go stock up on some more meth, go get into some sleazy broad's pants.  
He'd been throwing his brother to the side his whole goddamn life.  
But still Daryl was there on visitation days, Daryl was there when he needed cash, Daryl was the one trying to soothe him when he'd drank too much or overdosed and was vomiting all over the fucking place.

He had to find him. Daryl was all he had.

"Hey redneck," Glory snapped, waving her hands in his face. "Wake the fuck up."

Merle grunted in acknowledgement, snapping out of his thoughts to focus on the woman.

"There's a mechanic's garage on the second exit to the left, pretty isolated, we should pull over there, see if we can stock up on some gas." She explained, looking up from the map she held to gesture towards the van's near empty fuel gauge.

He mumbled his agreement, eyes glued to the road, but not really focused on it.  
All he could think about was his brother, if he was dead, killed by that fucking pig or abandoned by the group, left alone with no one to watch his back.  
As much as Daryl pretended that he hated being around people, Merle knew the truth. Daryl needed that, contact, craved some sort of appreciation or acceptance. Hell, kid would bend over backwards for a bit of acknowledgement, though he didn't dare show it. It wasn't the Dixon way.  
Being alone would drive his brother mad, yet a worse scenario still crept in the corners of Merle's brain.  
The idea of his brother, wandering endlessly, aimlessly, intestines hanging out of his torso, throat shredded, skin rotting, tearing into anyone who was within reach. The thought of Daryl as one of them, the geeks, was almost enough to make him toss what little he'd eaten.

Glory studied the far off look in his eyes, the way his face would wrinkle into a frown as if he suddenly realized something horrible, then snap back to neutral just as quickly. His focus obviously wasn't on the road, those brief moments of expression betraying how deep the redneck seemed to be in his head.  
He was completely distracted by whatever the hell was wandering around his still fucked-up mind.  
Eyes grazing over his tense shoulders and constantly clenching and unclenching fingers, her gaze rested on his stump and she felt curiosity nag at her.  
She still had yet to find out what the hell had happened to his hand- it sure as hell wasn't a surgical removal.  
Part of her was hesitant to ask, ever since they'd left the lodge and she'd put down that walker Merle had been engaged in a fucking old west standoff with, he seemed...Unstable- and he hadn't exactly screamed sanity and stability in the first place.  
The redneck was beginning to look more a liability with every passing moment. What if he froze again?  
He could be dangerous, she thought suddenly, the idea unbidden but holding a ring of truth. Normal people didn't hack off their own hand.

"Do you ever plan on telling me what happened to your hand?" She asked coolly, words rolling from her tongue with an air of nonchalance.

He turned to look at her, half glaring, focused on his surroundings for the first time since leaving the lodge. "Ya askin'?"

"I suppose," she mumbled, popping her "Ps". "After all I did keep you from dying from a blood infection of all fucking things."

"Woulda been fine," he snarled, taking her words as a jab at his capabilities.

"Pure machoness wouldn't help you when you're running a fever hot enough to cook an omelet redneck, now come on, what happened to that hand of yours?"

"Cut it off," he grumbled, eager to put the subject to rest.

"No shit," she sighed, rolling her eyes. "I'm many things redneck but blind isn't one of them. Why'd you do it?"

"Didn't have a choice," he sighed, his face regaining the haunted look she'd witnessed earlier.

"Nice to know you're not a masochist," she quipped snarkily, earning her a fierce glare.

"Got han'cuffed by some cop prick, don' even know who th' fuck he were, jus' cuffed me to some pipe in Atlanta, lef' me there, fuckin' geeks crawlin all o'er the place." He mumbled, remembering the incessant growling, the terror that settled itself over him when he realized that he'd been truly abandoned, that there was no way out of this one.

No way but that fuckin' hacksaw.

"Didn't have a choice," he repeated, almost missing his exit off the highway, but swerving at the last second.

Glory started to ask why he'd been cuffed, but stopped mid-sentence when he began to pull in front of the garage.  
It was just as it had appeared on the map, isolated, off a gravel road and surrounded by nothing but the Georgia wilderness, woods across from and behind it.  
The building itself was tiny for a garage and had obviously been in disrepair prior to the world's current state, the whole thing was covered in pealing and sun bleached blue paint. There was a torn cardboard sign christening the place as Jim's Garage in one musty window.  
The whole place would of appeared astonishingly normal if not for a splatter of blood over the door and across the front steps. They exited the van cautiously.  
Merle took it upon himself to take point, being the first to creep up to the door and carefully open it.  
A simple, quaint living-room greeted them, no sign of blood or biters anywhere to be seen, or heard. They went through the rest of the house with slightly less caution, finding it just as abandoned by anything living or dead.  
Finally, they went into the garage and after an hour or so of rummaging happened upon two modestly-sized jugs of gasoline.

"Place seems secure," Glory pointed out, gesturing to their surroundings. "How about we stay here for the night, take off sometime tomorrow morning."

"Sounds al'ight," Merle agreed, wandering back into the buildings living area and preparing himself a spot on the couch.

"Not there," Glory snipped from where she stood in the kitchen, scouring the cupboards. "Take the bedroom."

He cocked his brow, a wide grin spreading over his lips. Figured it was about time he got some- this damn apocalypse had forced him into quite the dry spell.

"Al'ight, whatever ya want sugar. Don't usually go fer spics but fer ya I'm willin' t' make an ex'eption."

She scoffed. "Just you and your hand redneck. You need to take the bedroom because you're still recovering from that blood infection, remember? The one you nearly died from?"

He snarled, smarting from the rejection. "Woulda been fine...Fuckin' spic bitch..."

Glory chuckled a little, then refocused on locating food for the road. The cupboards were bare except for a single abandoned can of Spam.  
There wasn't enough for it to even be worth holding on to and with a sigh she figured it was as good food as any for tonight.  
Grabbing herself a frying pan from one of the shelves, she turned on the gas burners and lit one with a match from her pocket.  
Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Merle flinch back when the burner made a soft "woosh" as it was turned on.  
Shrugging it off, she began frying up their meager dinner without further ado.  
Merle grimaced, the sizzling sound grating in his ears.  
Uncalled for, the slight noise brought back the memory of lighting the burner in Atlanta, heating the iron, the sizzling and snapping noise of his skin and flesh melting, burning to stop the blood-flow.  
Jesus Merle, Daryl's voice sounded in his head, ya've really jumped off th' deep end this time ain't ya?  
He tried to retort, but it was undeniable.  
The sound of fucking food cooking was just about giving him a panic attack and he was hearing his Bros voice in his head.  
Well fuck.  
As Glory continued cooking he felt a rising pressure build in his bones, felt himself tense as if ready to spring.  
He just wanted the noise to fucking stop already, he didn't care how. A part of him began to entertain the idea of making her stop, so long as it would end that sound, stop the clear, ghostly feeling of his stump being cauterized from returning.  
Hell knows he nearly did, when she turned off the oven and slapped the pitiful excuse for food onto a couple of plates, thankfully ending whatever kind of nervous breakdown he was having.  
You're scared of ovens now Big Bro? Daryl asked, sounding vaguely amused. And ya called me the fuckin' pussy?  
Fuck off Darylena.

"You okay redneck?" Glory asked suddenly, looking wary. "You look pretty fucking out of it."

Growling, more out of annoyance with himself and his goddamn inner-Daryl than with her, he snapped back.  
"My name ain't redneck fer fuck's sakes, so stop fuckin' callin' me tha'. Name's Merle, best get it right or keep yer mouth shut."

"You didn't answer my question," she pointed out.

" 'M fine," he insisted, quickly clearing his plate. "Gonna turn in fer the night," he added, walking towards the bedroom and slamming the door shut behind him.

Glory was left alone in the kitchen with her thoughts and suspicions.  
Beyond the racism, sexism and the fact that he was a drug addict and a complete douchebag, there was something very off about Merle Dixon.  
Something not so easily defined as his other traits. Something that had only started to raise it's head when they left the lodge.  
After a few minutes trying to figure it out, she gave up. It was pointless, like trying to put a puzzle together when you knew full well that pieces were missing.  
She didn't have the information nesscary to figure him out, for now at least she would just have to stay on her guard.  
Besides, if he did anything stupid she could always kill him.  
Reaching into her front pocket, she grabbed one of her last three cigarettes and stepped out onto the back porch overlooking the woods, lighting it.  
The night was crisp, cool and silent but for the rustling of animals in the forest.  
Jumping from the porch, she laid against the grass, eyes on the sky in order to enjoy the moment. The rustling grew louder, closer.  
She briefly considered shouting for help before deciding against it. Too risky.  
She looked to see the source of the racket and saw four biters dragging themselves towards her.  
The one nearest to hear appeared to have been an elderly woman who's shoulder had been shredded open.  
It dove for her and she dispatched it with a blow from her machete, the blade getting stuck in the creatures skull.  
A younger biter, a middle-aged woman with long, wavy brown hair that was ripped for her scalp in places approached quickly while Glory struggled to free the blade. Finally, with a ferocious yank that sent a spray of black and brown brain matter over her, the machete flew free- and out of her grasp, under the porch.  
Shit.  
The biter was nearly on her, its companions- two boys who had been 13 at the oldest- quickly following suit. There was no time to get the weapon.  
So kicked the woman in the chest, briefly knocking the thing back, and ran full tilt into the woods.

Merle was in a cramped, dark, dank room, no bigger than a small closet.  
I know this place, he thought, trying to force himself to connect the dots, but for some reason the answer just wouldn't come.  
There was a snarling, scratching noise at the door.  
He couldn't see them, but he knew it was walkers, that they were coming for him and that he needed to get out, now. It was to dark to make out anything, but he also knew that the door was made of cheap, flimsy plywood and shoddily put together, just like the rest of the structure.  
The geeks would tear it all down in minutes.  
Just as he struggled to create a plan, a viable escape route, he felt something hot and damp on the back of his neck that made his skin crawl, felt someone panting just behind him.  
Don't turn around, don't turn around, don't turn around-  
But he couldn't stop himself and he spun around, jumping back at the sight of Mikey's grin, his hungry leer and stinking breath filling the room with the scent of crap beer and halitosis.

"Hey Darlin'," he sneered, "nice of ya t' visit."

Merle backed away until he was pressed against the plywood walls, feeling the geeks slam against them, threatening to break through at any moment.  
He wished they would.

"Aw Merle, don't be like tha'," Mikey wheedled, pretending as though he was hurt. "It's been so long, don' ya wanna get reaquainted?"

Mikey was coming closer now, approaching until the sight of him and his unshaven skin, booze stained clothes and the track marks down his arms filled Merle's line of sight. He cringed, closing his eyes tightly as if that would somehow make it all go away, hearing the clack of the belt being undone, the smack of Mikey licking his thin lips.  
Suddenly he was face down, pressed into the dirt and he prepared himself, waited for the unavoidable pain-  
Only it didn't come, instead he heard something and he strained to decipher the sound.

"Merle! Merle! Get 'im off!"

His guts dropped.  
No, no, no, not Daryl that sonuvabitch couldn't get Daryl...  
He jumped up from the dirt, hoping he was hearing things.  
But he wasn't. He saw Daryl, struggling, fighting for all his Baby Bro was worth against the fucker, but Mikey had the advantage. His Lil' Bros eyes were wide, panicked, imploring the way he had so often when he'd been little, asking Merle to please make it stop. Daryl was a 32 year-old man now, but his expression was every bit his seven-year old self. The pervert grabbed his throat and Daryl whimpered like a kicked puppy, trembling while he tried to loosen the man's grip, to throw the sadistic fuck off of him.

"Merle!"

Merle watched in horror and rage as Mikey slammed his brothers face into the ground, leering and unbuckling his belt again.  
Not Daryl, he'd tried so hard to keep him away from Daryl, it couldn't turn out like this, it just couldn't.  
It couldn't happen to Daryl.

His little brother wasn't just shouting anymore, he was screaming, terrified, his face begging and pleading for Merle to do something, to save him.  
"Merle! Get 'im off'a me! Just get 'im off'a me! Merle!"

And Merle just stood there, unable to move despite throwing all his strength into trying. He couldn't save his baby brother and now-

Merle snapped awake, his mind unable to handle processing the repulsiveness of what had been about to occur, a small shout letting lose from his throat.  
Just a dream, he reminded himself, that fucker is dead now, he added for good measure, though still not quite believing it.  
He wiped his forehead, which was now coated in a sheen of sweat, his pillow and sheets damp with it.  
He'd been having a variation of that dream for years now- though the walkers were a new addition. Usually he'd force himself to calm down with a powerful hit.  
That wasn't an option and for the first time in years he felt the full effects of the panic the nightmare sent him into.  
Everything seemed to be closing in on him and try as he might he couldn't get enough air into his lungs.  
Oxygen seemed to be slipping away as he felt the bedroom practically shrink, the once spacious room now feeling equal in size to the old shed.  
Air, just need some air, he thought in gasps, running from the room and out to the back porch.  
He filled his lungs over and over, taking the deepest breaths possible, gradually feeling his senses return to him.  
No sooner than he'd regained the ability to think, he saw a woman, old as the fucking hills and obviously a geek, laying dead on the grass, a messy slice in her skull that couldn't be from anything but Glorys machete. What the hell?  
Coming down from the porch, he noticed an abandoned cigarette, still lit, not far from the body. Virginia Slims, he noticed, chuckling mentally at the irony.  
Glancing back at the house for a sign of Glory, wondering where the hell she could of got to, he noticed something glinting in the moonlight from under the porch. Her machete.  
He stared at the wilderness in front of him, knowing that it was the only place for her to run off to.  
Fuck, apparently he was taking a hike.

Glory ran long and hard, not pausing for so much as a gasp of air or a second glance, ducking through the underbrush, the terrain slowing her down.  
She could still hear the biters, moaning and growling not far behind her. Even if she did eventually manage to lose them, she had no idea what to do.  
She was lost, alone, without a weapon or any clue how to get back to the garage.  
In other words she was completely and utterly fucked.  
Maneuvering her way through the woods was proving a difficult task and she often found herself stumbling over roots, cursing as thorns snagged her clothes and skin, drawing blood, egging her pursuers on. One of the boys dove for her and she kicked at him desperately, landing a forceful enough hit to knock them both down when her attempts at backing away led to her falling over a tree stump.  
Shit, she cussed to herself, mother-fucking shit.  
Scooting backwards, she began crawling away through the bushes, her long, curly hair entangling itself hopelessly within the branches.  
She screamed instinctively as the biters came closer, tearing and pulling at her hair in a desperate attempt to get it free. It was useless.  
The boy was clawing at the leg of her jeans now, trying to drag her towards him, pulling himself towards her when he had no success.  
Glory heard the seams of her jeans rip and steeled herself for the feeling of teeth digging and consuming her down to the bone.  
She hoped they'd hit a major artery, get it over with.  
Instead, there was a loud thunk and she saw the woman biter fall down, dead, the first boy following suit soon after.  
She saw the toe of a pair of worn-out work boots, then felt the last biter being dragged off of her and saw it fall down, decapitated.  
A burly arm reached into the undergrowth, grabbing her by the wrist and attempting to pull her up to no avail.  
Crouching down, her last minute savior smirked at her.

"Sure got yerself n' quite the fuckin' spot there din'n ya sugar, laying here all tangled up and shit?"

"No shit Merle," Glory almost hissed, holding herself back only out of respect for the fact that redneck had saved her life twice now.

She tugged at her hair again, cursing when she found it just as knotted into the branches as before.

Unsheathing his hunting knife, Merle reached forward, using the blade to cut through the her thick hair.

After a couple of moments spent silently chopping her hair, he spoke up. "Why the hell din' ya shout when ya were gettin' cornered by these fuckers an'ways?"

"No reason," she lied.

"Tha's bullshit," he snarled,"Now ya best fuckin' tell me."

"Fine," she snipped, "I didn't because I was afraid you'd freeze the way you did back at the lodge. Couldn't risk it, it was too big of a fucking liability."

There was a sharp slash as Merle got of the last bit of hair stuck in the bushes and he glared intently at her.  
"Now ya listen t' me, ya hear? That there...That were different an' none a' yer fuckin' spic business. Do I gotta remind that I fought my way outta Atlanta, bleedin' out, only one goddamn hand, jus' 'bout losin' my mind from the blood-loss? I gotta remind ya tha' I survived tha' shit?"  
He brought his face closer, staring her down. "I ain't no liability. Ya understand me sugar?"

She nodded, meaning it. Redneck had more or less proven himself in her mind.

"Good, naw le's get back t' camp," he added in a mumble, yanking her up and smirking.

"What?"

"Ya look like a carpet-muncher."

"Go to hell Merle."


	6. Lonely Stories

Chapter 5: Lonely Stories

So here's to living life miserable,  
And here's to all the lonely stories that I've told.  
The Death Of Me- City And Colour

Merle had insisted on taking watch when they returned to the garage, knowing full well that after the dreams he'd had, sleep wasn't an option.  
He wasn't sure he could keep himself from screaming if his mind played out that little scenario again- and there was no way he was freaking out with Glory around. She'd been suspicious enough of his stability earlier- his nightmares weren't about to help with the small bit of progress he'd made with her.   
She'd slunk off towards the bedroom with a silent shrug, leaving him in the living room with nothing but his worries. The dream was still eating at him, concern and fear for Daryl gnawing into the pit of his stomach.

Smooth fuckin' move brother, Daryl chuckled in the back of his mind, all those years ya coulda done sumthin' an' now- when ya can't do shit- you decide to give a damn? Daryl scoffed. Figures.

He couldn't bring himself to argue, it was the truth after all. The slightest thing had often sent him spiraling, no matter what the cost to Daryl.

Once, when he was 20 or so, some asshole had mistaken him for his father.

He'd nearly killed the dumb fuck, got put away for a long time; hardly saw Daryl again until his little brother was all grown up, the Old Man long since dead.  
He tended to tell himself that the message he'd left the old bastard before the cops came was enough to keep his baby brother safe, despite the nagging at the back of his thoughts that said otherwise. He told himself that he didn't know what went down in those long years while Daryl was forced to fend for himself. He did, maybe not the details, but he knew the gist of it.  
It was just easier to pretend otherwise.

He did that with a lot of things, played pretend.  
Like that fucking crazy Denise broad, the housewife he'd been banging for a good couple of months or so when he was younger.  
The one he pretended hadn't had his damn kid.

It wasn't like she'd told him or anything, just refused to see him out of nowhere one day.  
He'd done the math himself when he saw her pregnant. Ran into her and her pussy husband, noticed her protruding stomach and stopped in his tracks.  
She'd stared at him a minute, her dull green eyes pleading, asking him to please, just walk away.  
So he did. Didn't know what the fuck else he was supposed to do.

He heard things about the kid, caught snips of conversation, learned that it was boy and that she'd named him Hollis, middle name Buck- after the Old Man.  
Merle figured that was supposed to be some sort of shout out to him- Denise was too dumb to figure out how he felt about his father, though it was no secret. Occasionally he'd see them around town- avoiding anybody was damn near impossible in that cramped collection of buildings.  
Hollis had his build- though a bit lankier, his eyes were Denise's tired green, with a certain added sharpness to them that Merle guessed was his doing.  
Denise looked drained, her face hollowed out by the wear of the passing years. He never said so much as a word to either of them.

Thought about them though, if rarely. He wondered if the boy made it out alright.

Wasn't sure why; there had been others after him. At least a good five or six other dames he'd enjoyed a tumble in the sheets with got knocked up.  
They tended to decide to take their chances on their own- even the common bar sluts and junkies knowing better than to have him raising their kid.  
That suited him just fine; he couldn't even remember most of their names anyways.  
Better to act like it hadn't happened.  
But there was one- he thinks her name might of been Ada, something with an "A"- who'd felt differently. Said she couldn't do it alone.  
She'd cried on his doorstep, begging him to help her, pleading with him because she just wasn't fit to raise a child. He'd sent her away.  
Told her and himself that it was better for the lot of them if he stayed out of it. He never saw her again.  
At least not until he saw a picture of a smiling brunette holding a baby in the paper- and read the headline proclaiming that they'd both been beaten to death by the broad's dealer.

Yeah, Merle didn't have much of a track record when it came to looking after folks.

He just wasn't meant to nurture someone- wasn't in his nature. Merle wiped his remaining, callused hand across his brow before resting his face in his palm.  
He'd tried- in his own way. He'd tried so hard.

He was so fucking tired of all his efforts going nowhere, of the blood and sweat he spent trying to make something of the two of them going to waste.  
Hell- he thought as he felt the wrinkles of his face, as he became hyper-aware of the bags under his eyes and the lines on his hand- maybe he was just tired.  
Looking back on his 46 years, he felt his age in a way he rarely did.  
The weight and struggle of every day long since passed seemed to be pressing down on his eyelids.  
He failed to stifle a yawn.

Well, so much for not getting back to sleep.

It was amazing what the effects of pure exhaustion could achieve.  
Forcing himself up from the porch, he dragged his heavy feet back to the bedroom, nearly barging in before thinking better of it and knocking, rapping his knuckles against the hardwood.  
He heard a grunt and the sound of Glory wriggling in the blankets.

"Hey, 's yer turn at watch, best get up."

She opened the door, yawning and impatiently shoving him inside while she walked back towards the porch.   
Briefly appreciating her generous ass as her hips swayed in time with her walk, he fell into the bed with a smirk and was out by the time he hit the pillow.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Dawn was creeping over the tree line, tendrils of light reaching the porch one at a time when Glory took it upon herself to wake up Merle.  
The earlier they moved on, the more likely they'd be to find shelter before nightfall.  
She didn't bother knocking- if last night's state was any clue it wouldn't wake him.  
Instead she just waltzed in as if she owned the place- which she supposed she kind of did now.  
The previous owners certainly weren't returning anytime soon so, until they moved on the place was good as hers.  
She was joking to herself about the joys of being a homeowner when she entered the bedroom, looking at Merle as he flinched in his sleep.

"Merle...?" She started, surprised by how careful her tone was, how cautious she was about not startling him.

The usually huge man seemed...maller somehow.

He was curled up almost into the fetal position as if he'd shrunk overnight, the sort of fear on his features that belonged to a child, not a fully grown, muscular man. He kept wincing and it was downright disconcerting how the expression tugged at her chest.  
Shaking her head and mumbling at herself to get the hell over it because she needed him up, she gave his shoulder a hard shove.

The effect was instantaneous and Merle woke, eyes panicked and fear-filled before focusing in on her.  
It was strange, seeing the terror in his gaze slowly fade to his customary glare with a scowl.  
A pang of something like guilt went through her- which was briefly unnerving, but completely forgotten when Merle snarled at her.

"Fuckin' Spic bitch."

"Name's Glory Redneck."

"Thought I told ya t' stop callin' me Redneck Spic."

"Stop calling me Spic and I'll consider it Redneck."

"Carpet munchin` bitch."

"Trailer trash," she replied, not missing a beat. "I expect you ready to take off five minutes from now or I'm leaving without you," she added, noting Merle's grunt of acknowledgement as she walked out of the room.  
No more than three minutes later they were loaded in the van, Glory's hands on the wheel after a debate with Merle over who'd drive ended in her snatching the keys from him when he growled at her for calling him Redneck.  
She started the ignition and backed out of the driveway, driving onto the highway, scanning for side roads while she maneuvered around car accidents and stray biters. The further they went into rural Georgia the safer they'd be. They needed to find another lodge, or a farm- something isolated, something safe. The country winding dirt roads were key to getting there- whatever the hell "there" happened to be.

"You see anything promising coming up on the map?" She asked, glancing to where Merle sat and glancing away all the quicker when she saw him trying to unfold the map with his one good hand- cussing under his breath while he went about it.

She forgot sometimes that the wound was still recent, that Merle was still learning how to live around the disability. Honestly, it was amazing how much he'd already figured out for himself- how to handle a weapon, drive the van- fuck, even tie up his boots, if only in knots.  
Even so, there were still things he hadn't and would probably never quite remaster.

Operating a can opener, cutting his food, reloading...Simple things that had now turned into daily obstacles. She could only imagine how frustrating that must be and yet nothing about Merle's demeanor was pitiable. It was impressive, his ability to keep his battles to himself. It was almost admirable even.

A few more seconds passed, the only sound in the van his swearing and paper crinkling, until Merle spoke up. "There's sp'ose t' be some kinda motel off 'a the highway a couple miles from 'ere, down some old road."

"Any other buildings nearby?"

"Jus' a huntin' shop in the woods- a good four hours outta the way, but we oughta see wha' we can get outta it."

Glory nodded. "Not a bad idea . We should clear out the motel's lobby first- if there's any biter build up that's where they'll likely be and that way we're on the ground so it'll be a clear getaway if shit gets messy. Afterwards we'll hit the rooms- you'll have to kick down any locked doors, seeing as you weigh more than me. Anything on how big the motel is?"

"Map's got subtitles, says it's two floors, five rooms on each floor an' it's got a kid-friendly pool. Free colonial breakfast wit' yer stay too." He joked.

"Would be nice to get my hands on a cup of actual coffee instead of that instant shit." She replied, unable to keep the wistfulness entirely out of her voice while she remembered the heady scent of a good cup of joe.

"Best quit the daydreamin' there sugar else yer gonna miss the turn," Merle pointed out dryly.

Glory spun the wheel onto a gravel road that seemed to stretch on into eternity until Merle pointed out the driveway partially hidden by overgrowth and the vacancy sign peeking out over the treetops.

The motel was much as Glory had figured from Merle's description.  
It was about the size of the average two-story house, its ancient red paint bleached by the elements until it resembled the color of rust, only a couple of weather-beaten mini vans in the parking lot.A couple biters were lying to the side of the door, clearly dead. There were electric signs in the windows- no longer operating of course- that would have once flickered between "vacancy" to "sorry, no vacancy" depending on which was the case- though Glory could hardly imagine somewhere this far out as having had steady business.  
She could catch a glimpse of the pool Merle had mentioned and a large, dirty window on the first floor that might have allowed her to look into the lobby if the shades weren't drawn. The shades had once been white plastic but were now sprinkled with a fine spray of crimson blood.

Putting the van into park, she took out her machete and snuck towards the front door silently, ignoring the insects crawling through the dead biters.  
The smell would have been enough to make her retch once, but she'd since grown more acquainted with the odor of death.  
The dead biters stank- but they were harmless now and not worth a second glance.  
Merle stood just behind her with his knife at the ready, just as unfazed by the corpses and their stink.  
She nodded and he gave the timeworn door a swift kick, knocking it off from its hinges.

An almost weary moan greeted them as a biter in a bloody pink sundress started to get up from where she'd been laying on the carpet, her jaw hanging down near her throat, clinging to the rest of her by only a couple of tendons. Half a biter that had once been a heavy-set man in a Hawaiian print shirt- and probably the other's meal- snapped weakly at them from the floor.

Glory let her machete swing into the woman's skull while Merle drove his knife into the man's eye socket- more an act of mercy than anything at that point. They checked the rest of the floor, the only biter they found an old man who tried to crawl towards them on broken legs.  
The motel's residents looked to be something to pity rather than something to fear.

The second floor was emptier than the first and they found no biters hidden in the rooms.  
They did however find a drawer filled with clothing that looked to be more or less Merle's size.  
In a different room Glory came across some sweaters that she was sure were a good two sizes too big- but she grabbed them anyways. Though the oppressive heat gave no sign of it, winter would come eventually and she didn't plan on dying because she didn't have anything warm to wear.  
The kitchens were equally giving and they found a bag of stale crackers that mice hadn't reached- hard as rocks, but relatively edible- in one cupboard.  
Another gave them a treasure trove of peanut butter and Nutella. Grabbing a spoon from one of the open drawers, Glory dug into the Nutella contentedly.  
Merle raised an eyebrow at her and let out a snort of laughter.

"Fuck you, this stuff is great," Glory grumbled around a mouthful of the chocolaty spread.

"I can see tha'," he muttered mockingly. "But I was 'xpectin' some actual cookin'."

"Make your own damn food."

Merle started to retort but she shushed him, ears catching onto a low but sharp popping noise in the distance.  
Staying silent, they waited until another short burst of the sounds could be heard. Gunfire- far off, but still distinct enough for them to recognize it for what it was. Another burst could be heard, the sound akin to that of far off firecrackers, growing more intense and frequent by the second.  
Whoever the shooters were, they sounded as though they were in a bit of a spot. The gunfire gained an almost desperate tone as it continued.  
Glory could have sworn that she heard the remnants of a scream.

" Ya know tha' we can't go an' help 'em, righ'?" Merle asked, his eyes scanning her face for an answer.

"I know," she replied, voice devoid of emotion and expression passive. "I'm not stupid- haven't survived this long by being some kind of bleeding hearted moron."

"Good." He replied, though something past his eyes gave her the impression that he wasn't quite as comfortable with the situation as she was.

Whatever his moral dilemma however, he was staying put, so she shrugged it off.  
Maybe he just hadn't quite gotten used to tuning out these sorts of things yet.  
She'd been uneasy too, she remembered, when she'd first ignored blatant cries for help- but she'd still done it, though she'd gotten a little sick when the screaming had started.  
The screaming was always the worst part.  
Forcing the memory from her mind, she grabbed her pack and pulled out her bottle Benzadrine, not bothering with cutting lines and just popping the pill. Swallowing quickly, she offered one to Merle.

"You're off the pain meds now, so you won't overdose," she explained.

Grabbing a pill for himself with a mumbled "don't mind if I do" he swallowed it down.

"Figured I ain't out t' kill ya Sugar?"

"If you wanted to and you weren't a dumbass you'd have gotten it over with already. Also," Glory added with a mischievous smirk, "I could probably take you."

He scoffed. "Ain't no fuckin' way, one-handed 'er not."

"You keep telling yourself that Redneck."

"Yer lucky 'm not an asshole- otherwise I'd fuckin' smack yer dumb Spic face fer talkin' like tha'."

"Oh you're an asshole Merle, just not that particular brand of asshole," she taunted.

"Fuck you," he grumbled in exasperation.

"Only in your dreams Redneck."

"Carpet munchin' bitch."

Glory smirked, enjoying another spoonful of Nutella before screwing the lid back on.

"Ain't been any noise in a while," Merle pointed out suddenly.

"No, there hasn't been."

"Maybe they made out al'ight."

"Or maybe they're dead. Doesn't have shit to do with us either way."

"S'pose not," Merle admitted grudgingly, expression withdrawn, thoughts apparently elsewhere once again.

He seemed to have a habit of doing that. Though she no longer perceived it as a liability, it was still really fucking annoying.

"You think those shots might have come from the hunting shop you mentioned?"

He shrugged, returning to the present. "Maybe. There's a town a way away's- but I figure tha's too far outta earshot t' be it."

"You still up to checking out the shop tomorrow?"

"May 's well. Wha'ever's gone down 'll pro'ly be done wit' by then. 'Sides- unless ya got some kinda ammo stash I dunno 'bout, we ain't got much choice."

She nodded. "Tomorrow then. We'll work out a plan in the morning."

Merle grunted in agreement. "I'll take first watch."

"Suit yourself." She mumbled sleepily, walking off towards the far end of the motel, mind whirring with the beginnings of a strategy before she crawled into bed.


End file.
